Jane Dixon had originally liked George; and now that he was free again, and that Susan Foster had, as it was well known, refused to marry him, she saw no reason why she should not put forth all her store of rustic allurements to win back her first love. George was by nature steady and domestic: he had for two years been engaged to Susan, and had therefore been in the habit of considering a wife, a family, a home, as the enjoyments to which a poor man should look forward; and although he had latterly been led to mix more with companions of loose character, though he had loitered away many an evening at bowls or in the ale-house, he was not happy while leading such a life. At first, it was for the loss of Susan herself that he grieved; but in time his regrets became less sentimental. He pined for a fire-side of his own, his own chimney-nook, his hot rasher of bacon for supper, and the kind attentions of a wife, even though that wife were not Susan Foster. He was in a state of mind which laid him peculiarly open to such attractions as Jane Dixon possessed; a tolerable share of beauty, extreme good-humour, and, above all, a very decided predilection for him, which she was at no pains to conceal. No wonder, then, if after two years of hopeless attendance upon poor Susan, he should now find himself engaged to Jane Dixon, and that the only difficulty which remained, was to break the event to Susan. Every time George entered their cottage, to bid them a hurrying good morning, or to wish them a hasty good-night, Susan thought the moment was arrived when he was going to announce to them the step he had taken;--for she felt that he would not allow them to learn it only from common report; and she judged rightly. Once, or twice, after having wished them good night, he had lingered with his hand upon the latch of the door, or had returned to ask some trifling question, and then had hurried suddenly away. Each time she felt that the decisive moment was come, and she worked herself up to receive the intelligence as she ought. She thought she wished it over, and her mind at rest; and yet she felt relieved when the door was closed, and she heard his step receding along the little gravel path, and she might still think of him as her George, and not as the promised husband of another. CHAPTER VII. Behold the herbage rich, in pride of June, Pranked with gay flowrets dancing merrily Beneath the sunbeams of the sultry noon, While slumbering in their cells their perfumes lie. But when the scythe sweeps on right sturdily, Laying their sweet heads low, their spirits fling Pure incense on the breeze ere yet they die; So doth the chastening hand of sorrow bring Virtues and graces forth, by joy left slumbering. _Unpublished Poems._